Never Have We Felt Welcome in This Stolen House

#blacklivesmatter

Confessions of an Urban Shaman

I look at my children often and wonder if this may be the last time I see them.

If I deviate from my normal routine, a side trip for bread, an after work pint, will I make it home afterwards?

There was a time when I lived without a heightened sense of awareness. Hands in pockets, earbuds blasting, careless.

At ease.

Now I survive on random spurts of adrenaline. Scrutinizing every white male that ventures close.

Eyeballing the local black and whites that come through my neighborhood.

One can’t imagine how tiresome this is, this sleepless vigilance. Depression and mental fatigue.

http://mobile.nytimes.com/2015/06/24/magazine/racisms-psychological-toll.html

My parents used to live this way.

Pops would relay tales of growing up amongst the lawless, in jukes and brothels. Despite the nostalgic tone of his voice we both knew that without freebies and bribes to the white sheriff, he could have easily been counted amongst the…

View original post 878 more words

Advertisements

Tell me what ya Think

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s